


Serendipity

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [18]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: Peter learns it's not too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999.

**  
March, 1998**

The brakes of the ancient MGB-GT squealed as Peter swerved into a parallel parking space next to the curb, and he sighed, making a mental note to get them checked; he loved his little red car to distraction, but he knew from long experience that it had to be treated with delicate care or it would turn on him in an instant, leaving him stranded on the side of the road at _the_ most inopportune moment possible.

Glancing up, he checked to make sure he was at the right place, and sure enough, the name Isabel had given him—Serendipity—was painted in ornate white letters on the door of the tiny shop. It was one of several fascinating holes-in-the-wall that she had discovered on her last visit to California. _A "visit" that had lasted the better part of a year_ , he thought wryly. She and Mike had been gone only a little over a month, but he'd gotten used to having them close by, and he missed the almost daily contact he'd had with them, especially during the last few weeks before they'd returned to New Mexico.

Unable to concentrate on her writing because of all the turmoil in her personal life, Isabel had spent many days prowling the city, uncovering out-of-the-way shops that had yielded unexpected treasures, and she was _still_ gloating over having found a Japanese onyx and jade chess set, damn her; the rooks alone were enough to make him drool in envy, being intricately carved in the shape of Oriental dragons complete with flicking forked tongues and scales. She'd written up a list of names and addresses for him, and he'd finally taken the time to track down one place she'd recommended in particular, marking it with four stars on the list and a little note reading, "go there NOW."

So now—with an afternoon free and no song lyrics in his head needing to be written down or accompanying music to be annotated—he was there.

From the outside, it was an unprepossessing place; the paint job had once been white, but it was faded and peeling in places. The window displays on either side of the door lacked the usual garish, vulgar cardboard dump bins and promo posters for whatever the author _du jour_ might be; instead, there was a simple black curtain backdrop and a small showing of non-best-sellers. He was surprised to note the owner had put a couple of rare, first edition hardbacks out where anyone could break the glass and steal them, but then they were just books after all, he thought, pursing his lips disapprovingly. Hardly valuable to most would-be thieves.

A tiny bell jingled as he pushed the door open and walked in; a young woman perched on a stool behind the counter glanced up from the book she was reading, peering at him over her glasses. Peter's stomach clenched momentarily, knowing this was a defining moment. Neither he nor the others were famous enough to need body guards or to be continually stalked by intrustive press, but they were well-known enough that he never knew when someone would recognize him, and while he enjoyed meeting his fans, he didn't particularly care to do it while he was wearing the oldest jeans he owned—the ones that were faded almost to non-color and fit like a second skin—and a paint splattered UCLA sweatshirt, a remnant from his days of renovating the former Pad which he'd been reluctant to part with. 

The woman smiled politely and nodded a greeting—and then returned to her book. He released a quiet sigh, knowing he'd be able to browse in peace, and the feeling was liberating.

Time slipped away as he lost himself among the shelves; the shop itself was deceptively small—although it was narrow, it was deep—and he kept discovering more rows of books that tempted him, more stacks begging him to dig through them. When he finally glanced at his watch, he was shocked to realize over an hour had passed--and that he had a load of books that was threatening to tear his arms right out of their sockets if he didn't put them down. _Including one beautifully lyrical translation of the Tao Te Ching_ , he thought smugly, anxious to call Isabel and do a little gloating of his own.

Smiling slightly to himself, he approached the counter, huffing a little as he lifted his burden up and dropped the pile of books in front of the clerk. She looked up at him, raising one eyebrow at the collection he'd chosen.

"Had fun, did you?" she remarked, and he laughed, nodding enthusiastically.

"Too _much_ fun," he agreed, but his smile abruptly faded as he realized she was staring at him with something akin to shock. "Is something wrong?" he asked hesitantly.

"My God..." she breathed, still staring at him. "You have got _the_ most gorgeous dimples..."

"What—?"

She shook her head, blushing a little and waving one hand as if to cover her embarrassment. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have said that—I'm not usually so—so _forward_ , but—"

"It's okay," he replied gently, amused by her reaction. He'd been told he had a nice smile by others, but he'd never encountered anyone so vehement about it before.

"Let me just ring you up, and you can go, and I can try to forget what an idiot I made of myself, all right?" She picked up the first book, flipping it over to find the price, her nimble fingers dancing over the computer's keyboard as she punched in the numbers. They both remained silent until she reached the third book and murmured, "This one's really good--it'll either change your life forever or make your brain explode."

"One or the other, huh?" he asked, earning a teasing look from her in return.

"One or the other," she affirmed, and--without thinking--he smiled at her again.

She immediately dropped her head in her hands, then, pushing her fingers through her thick brown curls, she looked up at him again. "I swear I'm not like this under normal circumstances," she told him, her tone self-deprecating. "But--I don't know--I just--" She paused, blew out an exasperated breath, and said all in a rush, "Would you consider hanging around for a bit just so I can prove I'm a normal person who can hold a coherant, intelligent conversation? I've got tea--Red Zinger, green tea, chamomile--"

"I'd love to," he blurted out, surprising himself and apparently her as well. "Green tea, please. No sugar."

Her answering smile was pleased as if his request had satisfied her on some level, and she finished ringing up and bagging his books quickly, then whipped off her glasses, tossed them on the shelf directly behind her and skirted around the counter.

"There's an extra stool over there by the window," she said, pointing. "Mind the shop, please--I'll just be a minute. Not that you're likely to be swamped," she added wryly, and he chuckled. There hadn't been another customer in the place since he arrived, and he had to wonder how the owner managed to stay afloat.

On the other hand, he thought with no little amusement, if other customers came in and spent as much money as _he_ just had, maybe he had his answer!

"Oh!" She stopped in her tracks on her way to the back room, then whirled around and hurried back to him, one hand extended. "Sorry--I'm Jane Coleman."

"Peter Tork." He took her hand, noting that her handshake was firm.

"Peter Tork...?" she echoed, frowning slightly. "Why does that name ring a bell...?"

For an answer, he merely smiled blandly. Apparently she didn't recognize him, and he wanted to keep it that way for a while. Once someone learned he was a musician--that he was "famous"--things always changed. Their attitude subtly shifted, and he liked the idea of talking to having a normal conversation with this woman without the spectre of celebrity hanging over them.

Within a matter of minutes, she returned with a tray laden with a teapot, two steaming cups of tea and a honey jar complete with a piece of honeycomb still in it. As soon as she reappeared, he jumped up from the stool he'd dragged over to the counter and went to relieve her of the burden, carrying it back to the counter.

"Thanks." She smiled and brushed a stray curl away from her face as she hopped up on her stool again. "Honey?" she asked as she picked up one of the cups and handed it to him.

"No, thanks," he replied. "Not in green tea. I like it straight." 

She nodded, then reached for the honey, letting a small quantity drip into her own cup. "So, Mr. Tork--"

"Peter."

"Okay." She flashed him a winning smile. "Peter. What do you do?" 

He paused with his cup half-way to his lips, gazing at her steadily for a moment. How to answer that?

"I'm...between jobs at the moment," he replied smoothly. It wasn't _quite_ a lie, after all. He'd just finished working on some material for a solo album, and he hadn't yet gotten around to starting the songs Micky'd asked him to contribute to their next group effort, which was still in the very very very early planning stages anyway.

"Ah." She blew into her cup, then gingerly took a sip; he noticed she paused momentarily as the steam rose to her face, seeming to breathe in the pleasant scent before drinking. "Married?" And then she immediately blushed again and shook her head. "Sorry--none of my business--"

"Divorced," he answered promptly, shocking himself with the admission. "Twice. Two kids."

"I see."

There were more questions; he could practically see them dancing around in her head, and he decided to take pity on her. He didn't know why exactly, but her inquisitiveness didn't bother him, and he found himself oddly intrigued by this girl. And she _was_ a girl as far as he was concerned--she couldn't be much older than his own kids, and he wasn't comfortable with the image of himself falling into the pathetic stereotype of aging musician taking up with a young woman half his age.

"Go ahead and ask," he said encouragingly. "I don't mind."

"Well..." She hesitated, then continued. "Tell me about your kids. That ought to be a safe enough topic. I'm not going _near_ the divorces!" she added, a teasing note in her voice.

"Ian's got a day job working as a sound engineer at a production company here in LA," he said, not bothering to mention that the production company in question was Headquarters, a company he'd helped found along with Mike, Micky and Davy. "Isabeau's at UCLA." 

"So what's his night job?"

"Pardon?" He glanced at her, momentarily puzzled by that question. 

"You said Ian's got a day job," she explained patiently. "That implies it's something he just does to keep food on the table while he does something he _really_ likes on his own time."

He grinned, amused by how accurately she'd assessed the situation when she knew nothing about any of them. "He's a musician. He's in a band, actually."

"Oh?" Her brows almost disappeared into her hairline at that. "Anyone I might have heard of?"

"Only if you go LA clubs a lot. They haven't recorded anything yet."

"Probably not, then." She waved one hand dismissively. "I'm not into the club scene...So, I guess trying to talk the company he works for into giving his group a contract would be a little too much like nepotism?"

She was joking again, but it was all Peter could do to avoid a spit-take on that one; he set his cup down hastily, trying to mask his surprise.

"Something like that, yeah," he replied somberly. Oh, this was getting a little too close to the truth! He wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to maintain his cover as Joe Average if she kept probing as thoroughly and accurately as she had so far. "Um--thanks for the tea, but--" He slipped off the stool, reaching for his package. "I really need to get going. It's been nice talking to you." 

"Being grilled by me, you mean," she retorted. "Well, I hope you enjoy your books--and I hope I haven't scared you out of coming back."

 _That_ , he thought as he hurried out to his car with the precious books cradled in both arms, _was a_ very _good question. A very good question indeed_.

~*~*~ 

_I have NO idea what I'm doing here_ , Peter thought as he stood on the sidewalk outside the tiny bookstore once more.

 _You know EXACTLY what you're doing here_ , a wee voice in the back of his mind piped up, and he squelched it quickly.

 _I do NOT_!

It had been just over two weeks since his first and only visit, and in that time, he'd felt the urge to return almost daily as if the place was luring him back somehow. He'd thought up tons of reasons to go back--there were shelves he hadn't been able to explore in as much detail as he'd wished, they might've gotten some new stock in, there were a couple of rare editions of certain books he wanted--but deep down, he knew he was merely trying to rationalize his actions.

What he didn't care to contemplate overly much was _why_ he was trying to rationalize his actions! He strongly suspected it had a lot to do with Jane Coleman, and he did _not_ want to give himself any opportunity to develop _that_ line of thought. Or emotion. She was young. Too young. And he was _not_ going to put himself in the postion to look ridiculous, like he was clinging to his lost youth by taking up with a child.

So he'd be friendly and polite, and they could be friends, and he did enjoy her company, but any relationship between them would _not_ go beyond the confines of the bookstore. _Besides_ , he assured himself as he reached for the door handle, _she might not even be working today_. And he resolutely ignored the flash of disappointment that thought created.

He walked in; the bell jingled; Jane glanced up from her book--an exact reinactment of his first visit except this time, she didn't simply acknowledge him politely and then ignore him. No, this time, a radiant smile lit her entire face, and she immediately closed the book she held cradled in her lap and put it aside.

" _There_ you are!" she exclaimed, not bothering to hide the delight in her voice. "I was hoping you'd come back. Did you enjoy your books?"

"Um. Yes," he smiled hesitatantly and nodded. "Very much. That's--um--that's why I dropped by. I wanted to see if you'd gotten anything new in."

"You're in luck," she announced. "The owner got back from the Orient last week, and he bought a ton of books while he was there. There may be one or two things you'll find interesting."

Removing her glasses and tossing them atop her discarded book, she hopped off the stool and skirted around the counter, heading down one of the narrow, cramped aisles to the back wall; he followed obediantly, intrigued by what rare treasures he might discover today. 

_Do you mean with the books or with Jane_? that annoying voice chimed in again, and he grimaced, wishing he had a mental mute button.

Once she'd pointed out the new collection to him and given him a brief summary of what types of books the owner had chosen, she made a tactful retreat, leaving him alone to explore them at his leisure. 

His leisure proved to be roughly fifteen minutes.

Any other time, he would've been fascinated by the delicately hand-painted illustrated volumes from Japan or the gilt-edged philosophical texts on Buddhism, Shintoism and Islam, but today, he found himself quickly growing bored, idly riffling through one book first, then another and eventually abandoning them altogether in favor of navigating back to the front of the shop.

Jane looked at him, both eyebrows raised, then the surprise on her face melted into pleasure as she watched him approach.

"Tea?" she asked, putting her book aside again. "Green, no sugar?" 

"Red Zinger with honey," he corrected with a teasing smile, and she laughed as she jumped off the stool again.

"Oo, we're in a daring mood today, I see!" And with that, she disappeared into the back to fetch the tea while he snagged the spare stool which was back in its place by the front window.

It was a social dance that was to become a ritual for them. At first, he rigidly forced himself to wait at least two weeks between visits, and there had to be a concrete reason for him to drop by which he quickly explained almost as soon as he walked in the door; then he allowed himself to stop in perhaps once a week, and he began forgetting to come up with a "reason" for it; then it was every two or three days, and neither of them bothered with the "I just stopped in because..." game any longer. As soon as he arrived, she went to fix tea, returning to find him waiting on his stool, usually checking out whatever she had been reading when he walked in.

Although he wasn't as blunt in his questioning as she initially had been, he learned much by listening to her and asking the occasional question. Like Ian at Headquarters, working at Serendipity was a "day job" for her; she was an artist--a sculptor who occasionally dabbled in painting.

"Oh, one of my best friends is a painter too!" he'd exclaimed when she told him that. He'd almost offered to introduce her to Micky since he'd had a couple of showings and might be able to help her out with some connections, but he stopped himself just in time. He still hadn't felt the need to reveal his identity, and he wasn't certain if he ever would.

He also learned that she'd turned thirty on February 15, two days after he'd turned fifty-two.*

 _Hardly jail bait_ , his inner voice reminded gleefully.

 _Twenty-two years is a considerable gap_ , he reminded himself sternly. And besides, other than her initial comment about his dimples, she'd given him no indication that she was interested in him other than as someone to help make the tedious hours at work go by more quickly through conversation.

 _And I'm glad_! he thought stoutly, earning a sarcastic snicker from that pesky voice.

 _Yeah, RIGHT_! it scoffed.

 _Oh, shut up_.

One afternoon, he strolled in to find her digging through a box--a large shipping crate that almost reached her knees--which she happily informed him was full of nothing but books the owner had shipped from Great Britain.

"Look at this!" she exclaimed, holding out a leather-bound antique book that was as thick as his palm was wide. "It's a Ninteenth Century hand-illuminated copy of the Book of Kells!"

"You must be _joking_!" Instantly he reached for it, handling it with reverant care as he flipped through the fragile pages, silently marveling over the intricate Celtic knotwork drawings and borders that adorned every page. "This is beautiful..." he breathed, and she nodded solemnly.

"Isn't it? If I had the money, it would be mine," she said wistfully. "The illustrations alone are worth it. Just looking through it gave me an idea for a painting--and that's not even my preferred method of expression!" she added with a chuckle, and he laughed along with her, remembering her rather vehement explanations about the purity of sculpture, how it allowed her to touch her work as she created, to literally be a hands-on artist.

Then she gave a little shrug as he handed it back. "Ah,well. Such is life on a retail salary. So--you want to give me a hand shelving these?"

Nodding amiably, he bent to gather up an armload of the new arrivals, following her to the appropriate shelf; other than a couple of brief questions about where something ought to go, they worked side-by-side in companionable silence, concentrating on the task at hand.

Raising up on her toes, Jane tried to push a collection of _The Tatler_ \--only volume one, but it was still huge--onto the top shelf; it teetered precariously for a moment, then fell with a resounding THUNK! to the floor. Swiftly she knelt to retrieve it just as Peter did the same. Reaching for it at the same time, they glanced up at each other--and Peter suddenly found himself lost in her pale blue eyes.

 _Oh, God...I'm in trouble_...

 _'Bout damn time_! And for once he wasn't inclined to ignore that intrusive voice.

Time froze, the moment spinning out into infinity as their gazes held; she darted her tongue over her lips, a nervous gesture that left them damp and glistening, and he wanted nothing more than to taste them. To taste _her_.

He leaned closer, saw her breathing quicken, saw that she didn't back away; she would let him kiss her if he wanted. Perhaps she wanted it too...

And then abruptly he straightened, shaking his head as if to snap himself out of a trance. Scrambling gracelessly to his feet, he shoved the remainder of the books he held on the nearest shelf and hurried down the aisle.

"I'm sorry--I didn't realize how late it was getting--I really need to get going now--" he babbled as he made his escape, all but running out the door in his haste to get away.

And he was _not_ coming back!

Lonely and celibate he might be, but if his two marriages had taught him anything it was that he was better off alone. Now Jane Coleman was threatening to make him question that resolution, and that was the last thing he needed.

~*~*~ 

He'd calmed down considerably by the time he got home, regaining a considerable portion of his usual equanimity by the time he pulled into the driveway; he was even able to laugh a little at himself for running out of there like a terrified teenager. He didn't think he'd acted _that_ awkward and silly with Valerie, and _she'd_ been his first girlfriend!

The message light on his answering machine was flashing when he walked in the door, and he hurried over to check it, hoping it wasn't bad news; since Davy's son Sebastian had designed a private domain not only for Headquarters employees in general but also for the "founding fathers" and their families, most of his communication with the rest of his adopted family was via email. Phone calls were rare and generally reserved for important information.

His heart rate accelerated slightly as he pressed the play button, and it speeded up even more when he recognized Isabeau's voice. Please don't let there be anything wrong with his kids...!

"Dad? Are you there...?" She paused, then added, "C'mon, Dad--pick up if you're there--this is important!"

"Shit! Don't tell me he's gone," Ian chimed in now, obviously irritated. "Where _is_ he? He _never_ goes anywhere! This _would_ be the one time he decides to leave the house!"

"Dad, we've got some great news!" Isabeau continued, raising her voice to be heard over her brother's grumbling. "The best! The Next Evolution has a recording contract! Can you believe it?"

Peter staggered backwards a pace or two, one hand pressed to his chest as he digested that information.

Their kids...They had a contract...They'd made it!

He sank down into the nearest chair as he listened to the rest of Isabeau's excited rambling, grinning so broadly he felt his cheeks were going to split open any moment.

"We all got together and signed the papers today--we faxed the contract to Uncle Mike to look over, and he said it was a fair deal for a first album, so we took it! We go into the studio next week!" 

"Oh, yeah--and we wanted to ask a favor of all of you," Ian interrupted. "I know you said you weren't going to use your influence to help us out, but now that we've got the deal, we want you guys--all of you--to be on one of the tracks. Rob'll send you the music if you're interested."

IF!

Peter felt tears stinging his eyelids at the thought of recording music with the kids; none of them had pushed their children into pursuing music as a career, but he knew from talking to Davy, Micky and Mike that they were just as proud as he was that five of their eight offspring had made the decision on their own to give it a try. And now to learn their children wanted their fathers to perform _with_ them--even for just one song--it was almost too much. He didn't know if he could stand much more pride and joy before he burst wide open.

"Oh, and Uncle Micky says he wants to throw a party this weekend to celebrate," Isabeau spoke up again. "He said he's going to email everyone the details."

"I'm gonna be here with Bobo at her dorm room for the rest of the afternoon," Ian added. "So give us a call when you get in, okay? We're all making calls and emailing like crazy, so if the phone's busy, keep trying. Bye, Dad! Talk to you later!"

"Bye, Dad! Is this great or what?" Isabeau exclaimed, and then the machine clicked off, but Peter didn't move; instead, he reached out and hit the play button five more times, listening to that message again and again, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing was true.

Finally he gave the tape a rest before he wore it out and picked up the phone to call Isabeau's dorm; the line was busy, so he waited five minutes and tried again. Still busy. With an exasperated sigh, he abandoned the phone and hurried to his computer, starting it up and waiting impatiently until it was ready to go. Launching his mail program, he checked his inbox and found it teeming with messages--from other parts of California, from New Mexico, from London--and skimming them showed that everyone was up on the latest news. Micky had sent ten Ks worth of excited rambling while Mike's message had simply read: "[Insert deafening, throat-shredding 'yee-ha' here]." Davy wrote that he was leaving Sebastian and Thomas in charge of the London branch and hopping the next plane back to the States; he would _not_ be leaving until the album was recorded, and he planned to sit there and listen to every single take. Peter had a feeling he wouldn't be the only one, either.

Among Micky's enthusiastic babbling was information about the party which would be on Saturday night, semi-formal. "And if you don't want to come alone, big Peter," he added, "I know someone I could introduce you to."

 _Oh, great_! he groaned silently, slapping his palm against his forehead. Why was it everyone wanted to play match-maker for him? Isabel had tried before she and Mike left; Davy tried every time he hopped the pond; now Micky was getting in on it! And _he_ was a fine one to talk anyway considering he hadn't been on a date himself since Mags died.

If he agreed to this, they'd take it as a sign that he was open to a new relationship. If he didn't, they'd probably spend the evening throwing eligible women in his path. Either way, he was doomed. And the worse thing was, he didn't know how to avoid it since everytime he assured them he was perfectly fine, all he got in response was a sceptical look and a dubious, "Uh-huh, _sure_ you are."

It was bad enough that he'd admitted he got a little lonely at times to Isabel in a moment of weakness. Normally, he wouldn't have said anything, but his defenses had been shattered at that point anyway, and it had slipped out before he could censor himself. And it certainly didn't help his case now.

He released a long, slow sigh, feeling cornered by his friends' good intentions. There wasn't any way out of this...unless...

No. Oh, no, he couldn't...

He shouldn't even _think_ about it, but it was the one thing he could do to avoid any and all blatant match-making attempts.

Jumping up from his chair, he ran to find the phone book, hastily thumbing through the pages until he found the number he sought.

The phone rang once. He felt his hands go cold and clammy, and he cleared his throat, hoping his voice wouldn't come out a nervous squeak.

Twice.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, silently pleading, _Come on--pick up_...

"Serendipity. May I help you?"

"Um. Hi, Jane, this is Peter."

"Peter--?" She sounded stunned, and after the way he'd bolted out of the store earlier, he couldn't really blame her. "Well, hi...What can I do for you?"

"You can come to a party with me Saturday night."


	2. Chapter 2

Peter muttered a curse under his breath as he stared at his reflection in the mirror; since Micky had said the party was semi-formal, he'd chosen to wear black trousers, a black jacket, a white shirt with a Mandarin collar and a dark jewel-toned tapestry vest. Now he scrutinized himself, wondering if he looked okay or if he looked like some old guy trying desperately to look hip and failing miserably.

Well, it was too late to do anything about it now, he sighed. A glance at the clock showed him he had fifteen minutes to get to Jane's apartment to pick her up, and he didn't want to be lateónot on top of everything else!

She'd been furious with him after he'd finally confessed the truth about himself. He'd made the grave mistake of telling her over the phone before allowing her to answer his question about going to the party with him because his conscience had needled him relentlessly, urging him to spill before letting her say yes or no. If she agreed first and he told her afterward, he'd feel awful as if he'd allowed her to make her decision based on a lie...or at least a sizeable omission of truth.

"So--um--you remember how I said I was between jobs...?" he had asked hesitantly.

"Sure I do. So?"

"Well, that's not...precisely true."

"What do you mean by 'not precisely'?" she had asked, a note of doubt creeping into her voice.

"I mean that while I don't have a steady nine-to-five type job, I'm not unemployed," he explained. "I'm not actively working now becauseó" He took a deep breath and said all in a rush, "Because I'm a musician, actually I'm one of The Monkees if you've heard of us, and we're not touring or recording an album at the moment, and I'm not ready to start my next solo album yet, so technically speaking, I'm not working right now. Technically."

There had been a prolonged silence on the other end of the phone, and then Jane spoke again in a surprisingly mild tone.

"You're one of The Monkees."

"Yes."

"As in that 'Believer' song that plays on the Oldies stations all the time."

"That would be one of ours, yes."

"I see."

Another agonizingly long silence.

"And when were you going to get around to _telling_ me this?" she asked pleasantly as if they were discussing the weather. "Or were you planning on keeping it from me?"

"IówellóIóumó" he floundered, not knowing exactly what to say. The truth was, if the rest of the group weren't so hell-bent on seeing him paired off, chances were, he _wouldn't_ have told her!

"You weren't going to, were you?" she demanded abruptly. "You were going to let me keep on thinking you were some normal guy! Why, Peter? After all these weeks, I thought we were friendsóI thought you trusted meó"

"It's not that!" he interrupted hastily. "I mean, it's not that I don't trust youóI do!óbut it's been so nice being around someone who didn't know or care who I was. I haven't been a 'normal' guy in so long, I'd forgotten what it feels like."

"This...disappoints me, Peter," she told him matter-of-factly. 

"I know. I'm sorry." He rocked back and forth on his heels as he stood there, pressing the receiver so tightly against his ear that it was beginning to hurt. "I don't know what more I can say except thatóthat I enjoyed what we've shared so much that I didn't want to...to taint it."

"You thought telling me the truth would have tainted our friendship?" There was disbelief in her voice, and he sighed, knowing he couldn't make her understand since she'd never experienced anything like he'd lived through since his mid-twenties.

"Fame has a way of poisoning people and relationships," he replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice but not quite succeeding.

"You make it sound like a curse."

"It can be." His voice was quiet but serious, and from the silence on her end of the line, he knew she was digesting what he said and hopefully recognizing his sincerity.

"Yes."

"What?" Peter frowned a little, bewildered by that unexpected terse statement.

"Yes, I'll go with you to the party Saturday night." She paused, then added in a much lighter tone, "How could I not? If you were willing to lie through omission because our friendship is so special to you, well, I think that's the best back-handed compliment I've ever been given."

"Great!" he exclaimed, awash with relief. His over-active conscience reminded him that he hadn't told her exactly _why_ he'd invited heróto divert any match-making attemptsóbut he decided keep that little detail to himself. It was, he rationalized, better to remain quiet than to divulge the truth and risk antagonizing her further.

"Oh, waitóPeteró" The sudden anxiety in her voice brought him to full alertness, and for a moment he had been convinced she was about to back out. "Who's going to be there? I mean, there's a reason you told me about yourself, right? If this little soiree was going to be a gathering of Average Guy types, I don't think you would've said anything, so what am I getting myself into?"

Chuckling softly, he'd relaxed and began to explain; by the time he hung up, Jane had been reassured that she wasn't going to face a high society firing squad, but nowódays later and with the party less than an hour awayóPeter was beginning to knot up again for an entirely difference reason. Yes, having Jane with him would mean no one would nag him about not having a date, but it also meant he'd face endless speculation about their non-existant relationship. And no doubt be on the receiving end of good-natured teasing about her age.

Well, all things considered, it was the lesser of the two evils, and he didn't regret his decision.

Smoothing his hand over his hair one last time, he stared hard at his reflection, silently admonishing himself to stop worrying for a few hours and concentrate on having a good time. After all, not only was he helping celebrate the kids' success, but he'd be doing it in the company of his best friends in all the world. And that included Jane.

~*~*~ 

"Holy _shit_!" Jane let out a muffled squeak and grabbed his arm, clutching it tightly as they walked into Micky's spacious living room, and Peter had a feeling that only her innate sense of decorum had kept her from shrieking the words. "Peter! Do you _know_ who that _is_?"

"Who are you talking about? Where?"

"Over there! By the punchbowl!" She jabbed furtively in the general direction and then looked away quickly as if she didn't want to be caught staring.

He glanced over and saw Mike and Isabel standing there, leaning towards each other for what was obviously a privateóbut judging from her smile not a seriousóconference. Shaking his head, Peter watched Jane with growing amusement; given her indifferent reaction to his celebrity status, he hadn't pegged her for the type to be star-struck, but apparently where one Monkee had failed to awe, another had succeeded.

"That's Isabel Nesmithóthe writer!" she hissed. "Oh, my God, Peter, what's _she_ doing here? Don't tell me you actually _know_ her!"

He gaped at her, stunned into momentary silence, and then he burst out laughing.

"Yes, I know her," he said at last, wishing Isabel were standing there now; she'd accuse him of delivering an understatement of what she would call "Nesmithian proportions."

"You know Isabel Nesmith and you didn't _tell_ me?" Jane swatted his arm, her blue eyes flashing as she glared at him.

"It didn't occur to me," he replied, still quietly chuckling.

"Well, what _is_ she doing here anyway? I thought you said there were mostly going to be musicians here."

"She's married to Mike."

"Who the hell's Mike?"

Which of course set Peter off all over again.

"See the tall guy standing next to her?" he asked when he could speakóand breatheóagain. "The one with the beard?"

"Right..."

"Mike Nesmith. Dabbles a bit with films, produces records, helped create the music video as we know it. Singer, song writer and guitar player with The Monkees and on several solo albums. And married to Isabel," he added, proud of himself for keeping a straight face.

She gazed at him steadily, her expression somber. "I didn't realize that...You must think I'm a complete idiot..."

"Noóno, of course not." He reached out and caressed her cheek, smiling fondly at her. "You've just got other priorities and other interests," he continued reassuringly. "I think it's a good humbling experience to meet someone so completely ignorant about us. In this industry, it's easy to let your ego take over sometimes and forget that not everyone knows or cares about you."

"Well, why don't you go ahead and point out anyone else I should know about before I make a fool of myself in front of someone other than you?" she suggested wryly.

"Why don't I introduce you to them instead?" he replied, crooking his elbow in a silent invitation.

With a shy smile, Jane slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, letting him lead her around the room to begin the introductionsóstarting with Isabel.

As he approached, Peter watched Mike and Isabel, who were still engrossed in conversation, seemingly oblivious to the noisy, crowded party in full swing all around them. _Not unusual_ , he thought with a mental snort. They were bad enough until things began to cool off a couple of years before The Separation, but since that crisis had been resolved, they were worse than before; the nicknames Rob had bestowed on them in a fit of sarcasm when he was just entering adolescence had not only stuck but were now more accurate than ever. 

He saw them exchange teasing smiles, saw Mike pat her shoulder, saw Isabel reach up and squeeze his fingers briefly before releasing them again, the most they'd allow themselves in the company of others. Casual touches that they shared every day without conscious thought. Just an obvious and natural expression of their mutual affection.

He remembered those touches. Even though the love he'd felt for the two women involved was long gone, he could remember the contentment such moments brought. The peace of silent communication, of knowing you needn't speak to be understood. It was something he hadn't experienced with a woman in years, and he'd never missed so much as he did in that instant. He envied them...

But then the couple glanced up and noticed the new arrivals, and both their faces lit up with pleasure.

"Peter!" Isabel held out her arms, inviting him into a hug he didn't refuse.

Bending to drop a quick kiss on her cheek, he stepped back to Jane's side and extended one hand to Mike, who shook it firmly.

"Hey, Peter," he said pleasantly with no trace of awkwardness, for which Peter was grateful.

Peace had been established between the two of them long before he and Isabel had returned home, but still Peter worried that Mike harbored a grudge against him for what had occured between himself and Isabel. With every month that passed and every new meeting between them, however, his concerns were gradually fading. Mike hadn't shown any signs of anger or resentment, and his every action seemed to indicate that he regarded Peter with as much affection as before.

"I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," Peter began, knowing it was his job to make the introductionsóbesides, Isabel was fairly vibrating with curiosity, and he knew if he didn't provide answers soon, she'd burst out with the questions herself. "Jane Coleman. Jane, these are my old friends, Mike and Isabel Nesmith."

"Easy on the 'old' part, Tork," Isabel snorted even as she held out her hand to Jane. "Pleasure to meet you," she said, smiling warmly at the younger woman.

Wide-eyed, Jane shook hands with Isabel and then Mike, murmuring, "Nice to meet you too."

Peter glanced at her, one eyebrow raised; he had the feeling that if she thought she could get away with it, she would have hidden behind him and peeped shyly around at other couple. _Or rather, at Isabel_ , he amended with a silent snicker.

"Apparently Jane's a fan of your writing, sweetheart," he remarked blandly, knowing he was needling Jane mercilessly in doing so, but he couldn't resist. "I didn't know it til we got here, but you're the only one in the room she recognized."

"That's not true," Jane retorted, finding her tongue at last. "I recognized Stephen Stills."

"Score one for you," he teased, earning an elbow in his ribs in response.

Just then, Rob bounded into their midst, caroling out an enthusiastic greeting as he did. "Hey, Uncle Peter! Great to see you!" Pausing to hug Peter, he moved to stand between Mike and Isabel, throwing one arm around each of them as he did. "Who's your little honey?"

"Rob!" Isabel slapped Rob's stomach, but he merely grinned unrepentantly.

"Rob, this is my _friend_ ," he replied, emphasizing the word. "Jane Coleman. Jane, this is my bratty adopted nephew, Rob Nesmith. 

"And despite whatever first impression you may have formed after this, he was _not_ born in a barn!" Isabel added with a quelling look at her exhuberent son.

"He just acts that way most of the time," Mike chimed in.

"Friend, eh?" Rob asked, ignoring his parents' jibes. "Huhófor a moment, I thought maybe Gomez and Morticia here had finally beaten you into submission."

"Not quite yet," Peter replied, grinning broadly. "My will is still unbroken."

"Um--would someone tell me what conversation I just walked in on?" Jane piped up at last, visibly puzzled.

"Oh, sure," Rob answered blithely. "Mom and Dad are so obnoxiously happy, I think they're on a campaign to make sure everyone else is tooóincluding Uncle Peter. Mom's been trying to set him up for ages."

"I see..." Jane raised her fingers to her lips, and Peter could see she was trying to hide a smile.

"Anyway," Rob continued. "Y'all are just in time. We're going to play in about ten minutesóand that means I need to get ready!" Flashing them one last engaging smile, he dashed off again, and Peter watched him go with fond amusement. How two such quiet, reserved people had managed to produce that whirling dervish he'd never know. 

"Well..." Isabel raised her hands and let them fall to her sides again with a wry smile. "That's our boy."

Mike shoved his hands in his pockets and, with a typical dead-pan expression, remarked, "Goes far to explain why he's the _only_ one, too."

~*~*~ 

The party was an unqualified success, but Peter suspected they all could have been in a barn in the middle of a blizzard with nothing but grits and chitlins for refreshments, and there still would have been a fiesta atmosphere based on the sheer joyous energy radiating from the guests of honor and their parents.

Peter steered Jane around the room, introducing her to Mickyówho, with his daughter Agnes right behind him, was loading up his plate at the buffet tableóand Davy, who was enjoying the company of a lovely woman named Claire. He intended to introduce her to some of the other well-known guests in attendanceóbetween the four of them, they knew quite a few notables in the industryóbut then The Next Evolution took the make-shift stage Micky'd had set up at one end of the room, and all attention turned to them.

Although he wasn't sure if it were a deliberate or unconscious gesture on their parts, he noticed that he and the other dadsóand one momóslowly edged their way to the front of the crowd where they could get a clear view of the kids' performance. Rob strode to the microphone, taking his place as front man while the others filed on-stage behind him, taking their places at their respective instruments.

"Good evening, everyone," Rob began, his tone formal and polite as he scanned the audience, making eye contact with various people along the way. "Thank you for coming to help us celebrate the big event. We're all a little excitedó"

A roar of appreciative laughter greeted that remark, and Rob grinned to acknowledge the undestatement.

"óand we probably need as much practice as we can get, so if you don't mind, we'd like to play a couple of tunes for you."

By that time, the rest of the band members were settled, tuned up and ready to go; Peter could see Ian twirling his drum-sticks, smiling reassuringly at his little sister, who stood behind the keyboards, drumming her fingers nervously against the console. At a nod from Rob, Ian counted them off, and they launched into their first song, a hard-edged number that quickly got the crowd whooping and clapping along with enthusiastic vigor.

Their first three songs were energetic, with Rob, Isabeau and George trading off lead vocal duty, then they changed the pace a little with a slower, almost mournful ballad called "New Mexico Suite" which Peter recognized from one of the tapes Ian had sent; Rob was up for lead vocals again, and Peter sneaked a glance at Mike and Isabel, expecting to see them both beaming with pride at their only child. Instead they were looking at each other with expressions that seemed an odd blend of wistful melancholy and tender affection. To his surprise, he saw Mike reach out and pull her into a tight embrace, and he looked away quickly, feeling as if he were spying on a private moment and wondering what it was all about.

Two more numbers, and then Rob announced that they needed to take a break for a few minutes.

"We've got a surprise planned," he added, his smile turning mischievous. "But it's going to take some preparation, so y'all go enjoy the party, and we'll be right back!"

With that, they all disappeared into another part of the house; George and Isabeau were giggling together the entire way, Rob looked as smug as the proverbial cat in the creampot, and even the normally stoic Ian was smiling with pure delight, and Peter watched them go with growing bewilderment, unable to guess what had them all acting so giddy.

A few people wandered over to the buffet table againóMicky and Agnes includedóbut most of them stayed where they were, clustering in little knots of conversation, patient to wait until the band's return.

"I hope you're not bored senseless," Peter said, giving Jane a concerned look. She didn't really know anyone here other than him, after all, and he was worried this evening was proving to be a complete waste of time for her.

"Are you kidding?" she replied, giving him a look of pure astonishment. "Peter, this is incredible! I've met one of my favorite authors, I'm witnessing the birth of a great new bandóand to top it off, two of them are your children, and you're letting me share in this experience. I'm honored to be here tonight. It means a lot that you'd ask me to be here with you," she added softly, gazing at him with trust shining in her ice-blue eyes, and Peter caught his breath, feeling himself drowning in those pale depths again, and it was all he could do not to lean forward and kiss her right then and there. 

It was the scenario in the bookstore all over again, but this time, he doubted his own will power would be enough to save him; instead, rescue was provided in the form of The Next Evolutionóor more precisely, the gasps, exclamations and laughter that their reappearance provoked from the on-lookers.

Startled and curious, Peter snapped his head aroundóand his lower jaw promptly scraped the floor as he caught sight of their kids.

All of them were dressed in matching red John Wayne eight-button shirts over black turtlenecks with grey pants, except George Dolenz, who had thrown a carpet-patterned caftan over his. He'd also teased his light brown curls until they resembled his father's unruly mop from the late 60s, and he was grinning ear to ear in a brilliant imitation of his dad.

Ian had buckled his belt over his left hip and strung about three strands of love beads around his neck; Charlotte Jones had traded her guitar for a tamborine in one hand and a pair of red maracas in the other, but it was _Rob_ who really made Peter feel as if he'd stepped into a time warp. Peter had never realized exactly how much the tall, slender young man resembled his father until now when he'd parted his longish black hair on the right, letting it wave across his forehead instead of brushing it straight back like he usually didóand then he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a green wool hat and put it on amid uproarious laughter from the crowd. With that outfit, with the guitar in his hands, the resemblance was uncanny, and Peter was unable to resist looking at Mike and Isabel, who were both obviously shocked but laughing nonetheless.

"I don't get it," Jane whispered, touching Peter's arm lightly. "What's so funny?"

"Ask me again when I've got about three hours and a photo album," he whispered back, unable to hold back his laughter any longer.

"There are four very special people that we owe a debt of gratitude," Rob said, leaning forward and adjusting the microphone slightly as he spoke. "We talked about this, and we agreed that we wanted to show our dads how much we appreciate their love and support throughout The Next Evolution's rather tumultuous career. They allowed us the freedom to succeed or fail, and while it might have been easier if they'd helped, it wouldn't have been as satisfying. We can stand here tonight proud of ourselves for our accomplishments, and we can say we did it on our own. It's the best gift they could've given us."

He paused, clearing his throat as if he need a moment to collect himself; Peter felt a lump forming in his own throat, and he knew if he got through the rest of the performance without shedding a tear it would be nothing less than a miracle.

"So thanks, Dads," he continued at last, gesturing expansively in a way meant to include all four of them. "This is for you."

Beside him, Jane slipped her arm around Peter's waist and gave him a comforting squeeze, and when she would have removed it again, he shook his head and slipped his own arm around her shoulders, grateful for her wordless support. She glanced at him, surprised, but she smiled and gave him another squeeze before returning her attention to the stage.

Once more, Ian counted them off, and George launched into a spirited version of "Last Train To Clarksville," his baritone voice giving the old song a new sound, but he emoted just as much as his father ever did, pouring his heart into each performance, and this was no exception. Peter sought out Micky in the crowd and saw him clapping enthusiastically with the beat, mouthing the words as his son sang them.

Next Charlotte took a rare turn at lead vocals, winking at her father whom Peter saw was grinning broadly at his youngest child as she belted out "Daydream Believer," slapping the tambourine against her hip to keep the beat.

Rob was up next with "Papa Gene's Blues" while Charlotte shook the maracas with wicked glee, and once again Peter received a jolt. Rob sounded enough like his father under normal circumstances when he sang, but this time, he was deliberately modifying his husky tenor, and the result was an eeriely accurate reproduction of Mike's take on the song, andówith an impish grin at his parentsóhe even let out an exaggerated "yee ha!" in the middle of it all.

Isabeau followed with a rendition of "Your Auntie Grizelda" that had people doubled over laughing, including her father, who was delighted by her antics as she sashayed and vamped across the stage; she even draped herself over Rob at one point, crooning the line, "you look just like her, you do" and kissing him on the cheek before darting to the other side of the stage to shimmy her way through the chorus.

After the applause for that one had died down, George set aside his bass, Charlotte put down the tambourine and maracas, Ian lay his drumsticks on the floor beside his kit, and Isabeau returned the microphone to its stand, then they all began to walk off the stage, leaving Rob alone.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd at this unorthodox move, but as the four of them headed into the audience, Rob began playing the opening chords of a familiar tune, and Peter froze, feeling tears welling in his eyes.

Not that...Anything but that...

"Hey, hey, mercy, woman plays a song, but no one listens. I need help, I'm fallin' again."

Suddenly the only sounds Peter could hear in the deathly silent room was Rob's voiceóquiet and hauntingóand the single guitar and the beating of his own heart pounding in his ears.

And then Ian stood before him, smiling and holding out his hand. 

"C'mon, Dad," he said softly. "Your turn now."

The world around him collapsed until only he and his son existed; the rest of the world was gone. Pride, love, joyóall welled up in his heart, nearly suffocating him, making him feel as if he were struggling to draw breath.

Jane released him, then gave him a little nudge in the small of his back. "Go on," she urged, smiling at him, her eyes sparkling with pride.

Her gentle touch, her soft wordsóthose were the impetus he needed to force his sluggish body to move, to reach out and clasp Ian's hand and let himself be led to the stage. He was vaguely aware that the others were coming as wellóIsabeau having rounded up Mike on Rob's behalfóuntil they were all gathered there.

George led Micky to the drumkit, bent to retrieve the sticks and handed them over, exchanging matching smiles with his father as he did; Charlotte gave Davy a choice of either taking her guitar or her tambourine, and with a wicked grin, he chose the tamborine, murmuring something that Peter couldn't quite catch about not wanting to break tradition; Ian gave Peter a choice of either keyboards or bass, and remembering that psychedelic TV special they'd done years and years ago, he chose keyboards, leaving George to reclaim the bass. Having finished the first run-through of the song, Rob stepped back from the microphone, unslung his guitar and handed it over to Mike, letting him take over lead guitar and vocals for the second round. Charlotte picked up the maracas and joined her father in keeping a steady rhythm as Mike began the song again with Rob providing back-up harmony.

By the second verse, Micky and Davy had joined in singing the lead vocal line while Charlotte, George and Ian also chimed in with the harmony. Peter stared down at the keyboards, trying to concentrate on remembering the notes so he wouldn't end up getting all weepy, but it was too late; as soon as he heard a tell-tale waver in _Mike's_ voice, he came undone. Only he and Isabeau remained silent, and it wasn't long before he felt her arms around him as he continued to play, barely able to see the keys for the tears flooding his eyes. 

"Love you, Daddy," she murmured in his ear before releasing him and moving across the stage to stand beside Rob, blending her pure, clear soprano voice with his.

Releasing a shuddery sigh, Peter sniffed and glanced around only to find that several people in the audience were in tearsóIsabel and Jane includedóand Micky and Davy were both perilously close themselves. Mike _appeared_ unruffled, but his voice was giving him away. But after the initial shock of emotion wore off, they all began to slip into the music; the younger musicians were accustomed to improvising together on a regular basis, but their older counterparts hadn't done it in a while, and they found themselves relishing the opportunity. Rob picked up Charlotte's guitar as a wild jam session ensued that lasted for the better part of ten minutes, getting into a playful competition with his father that gave way to a elaborate drum riff from Micky, who was obviously enjoying showing off, which led to Peter trying to one-up him on keyboards, swaying as he let the music flow from him, his fingers dancing over the keys. 

When it was over, he felt drained, as totally exhausted as if they'd just played a two-hour concert. It took the last of his strength to drag himself off the stage and into Jane's enthusiastic embrace; he noticed Ian and Isabeau giving him "oh, _really_?" looks as he glanced at them over Jane's shoulder, but he wasn't up to explaining. That would simply have to wait. Right now, he wanted to wallow in this moment of pure joy, to savor and treasure it, to soak in every nuance so he could recollect it with crystalline clarity for the rest of his life.

"Oh, Peter," Jane whispered, hugging him tight. "That was fantasticóyou were brilliant!"

"You enjoyed it?" he asked, pulling away slightly and fixing her with a searching gaze. "Really?"

"I had no idea you were so talented," she replied. "No question where Ian and Isabeau got it from."

He beamed at her, fairly bursting with fatherly pride. "Weren't they great? They're incredible together. I just hope this is the start of a long and happy career for them all."

"I'm sure it will be," she replied confidently.

He watched her silently for a moment, waging an inner war as he debated the wisdom of what he was about to do. Despite the fact that he'd rationalized inviting her by claiming it was merely to deflect any match-making attempts, deep down, he knew that was just a cover-up, and if he were completely honest with himself, he wanted to be with her. He wanted to see her outside the store, he wanted to be more than just a friend. He still harbored grave doubts and fears concerning the age difference and he wasn't convinced it could possibly work between them, but his feelings were growing too strong, and he was growing weary of fighting them. Perhaps it would just be best to let things run their course and hope it didn't hurt too much when it was all over.

"So you've had a good time so far tonight?" he asked hesitantly. 

" _Very_ ," she assured him.

"Enough to want to do it again?"

She darted a startled look at him, then a slow, pleased smile curved her lips. "If that's an offer, I'm accepting."

"It's an offer."

"Then you've got yourself a date."

And Peter smiled shakily, trying to stave off the unsettling blend of pleasure and panic that welled up at her softly-spoken acceptance. 


	3. Chapter 3

Around 5:30 the following afternoon, Peter set aside the sheet music he'd been working on and strolled over to his stereo system, hooking up the outside speakers so that the music would play both in the house and out on the deck; popping in one of his favorite Richard Thompson CDs, he cued it up to "'52 Vincent Black Lightning" and headed to the kitchen. He hummed along softly as he puttered about, thinking of Mags as he always did when he heard the line, "red hair and black leather, my favorite color scheme."

A short time later found him carrying a tray out to the deck, loaded with a pitcher of tea, three glasses and a set of plates and silverware; his second trip yielded a small ice bucket already filled and a large bowl overflowing with a salad he'd put together himself, and a bottle of the tart vinaigrette he preferred. After he'd brought out everything and arranged it on the table, he settled in one of the deck chairs with a book, waiting.

He'd gotten perhaps five pages into the book when his not-quite-unexpected guests arrived; a few minutes after six o'clock, there came a perfunctory buzz of the door bell, followed by the sound of the door opening, a clatter of footsteps, and his children's voices calling for him.

"Out here!" he called back, setting aside his book and standing up so he could greet them.

"Hey, Dad!" Isabeau was the first one out, hurrying into his open arms and hugging him tight before stepping out of the way so Ian could do the same. "What's up with this?" she asked after Ian had stepped away as well. "Are you having company?"

"Is Jane coming over?" Ian asked slyly, grinning impishly at Peter, who shot him a quelling look in return.

"Pay attention," he admonished his children sternly. "There are _three_ settings here, thank you. And yes, I'm having company--you."

"Are we that transparent?" Isabeau asked, exchanging sheepish looks with her brother.

"As glass, my pets," he replied. "I knew you'd come over as soon as humanly possible today to grill me, so I made a few preparations." He crossed over to the table, opened the ice bucket and began dropping ice into the glasses. "Have a seat," he invited, gesturing to the other chairs on the deck.

"How'd you know when?" Ian asked, curiosity lacing his tone.

"You get off at five, and I figured you'd swing by to pick up Bobo afterward, then come here together," came the pragmatic reply. "Lemon? I always forget which one of you likes it and which doesn't." 

"Like it," Ian piped up.

"Hate it," Isabeau added.

"Got it," Peter chuckled softly as he poured the tea, then handed them each a glass.

They remained silent as he served up the salad--tactfully waiting to pounce until he was finished, he thought with no little amusement. 

"So." He picked up his own glass, taking a single sip before returning to his chair with tea and salad in hand and settling in comfortably, regarding them with placid tranquility. "First question?"

"Where'd you meet her?" Isabeau asked promptly, tucking her legs under her as she leaned against her chair arm, leaving the salad momentarily untouched in her lap.

"I'm not sure if I'll ever admit this to _her_ , but Aunt Isabel inadvertantly had a hand in it," he replied. "Jane works at a small bookstore that Isabel recommended to me. We hit it off the first time I went in there, so..." He shrugged negligently. "I kept going back."

"How long have you been dating?" It was Ian's turn now.

"Since last night," Peter answered, laughing at their surprised expressions. "We're just good friends right now," he insisted. "That's all."

His two incorrigable offspring exchanged knowing grins, then Isabeau touched her fingers to her nose and pulled them straight out--their Aunt Mags' patented, "Pinocchio's nose is growing" gesture.

"Come _on_ , Dad," she scoffed. "We saw the way you two were looking at each other. If that's just friendship, I'll tear up our record deal."

Peter felt his cheeks growing warm, and he resisted the urge to squirm; he hadn't realized he was revealing so much--he'd been trying to keep himself in check, after all!

"We're just friends," he repeated weakly, but the words didn't carry much conviction even in his own ears.

"Oh, please." Ian rolled his expressive hazel eyes. "Don't tell me you're fighting this, Dad. Why? We talked to her last night. She seems really nice, and we didn't get the feeling she was after you for your money or anything, so what's the problem?"

"She's definitely not after me for money," he replied firmly. "She didn't even know I'm a musician until a few days ago. She didn't recognize me, and I didn't enlighten her."

"Well, there you go," Isabeau replied, gesturing expansively. "She's different already--especially from Trisha."* She scrunched up her face in obvious distaste at the mention of her former step-mother.

"She's very different from any other woman I've been involved with," Peter said dryly.

"All two of them," Ian interjected, earning a reproachful look from his father.

"She's over twenty years younger than me," he concluded, expected them to nod agreement once they realized what a considerable age gap existed between himself and Jane, but instead they just stared at him blankly.

"So?" Isabeau said at last, rolling her shoulders in a negligent shrug. "Jeez, Daddy, it's not like she's _sixteen_ or anything. You're not pulling a Roman Polanski."

"Yeah," Ian added with a teasing smile. "If you'd told us her name was Lolita, _then_ we'd be worried!"

"But she's not that much older than either of you!" he protested, surprised at their indifference.

"So?" Ian countered. "We're both adults. We don't need a step-mother. _You_ , on the other hand, need a companion."

"I've been just fine on my own," he replied, crossing his arms across his chest defensively.

"Uh-huh." Isabeau nodded. "Just fine. And lonely."

"And celibate," Ian chimed in.

"Ian Michael Tork!" Peter gaped at his son, astonished that he'd say such a thing.

"Well, it's true!" he replied, spreading his hands in a "what're ya gonna do?" gesture. "We both know how you are--and what you've been through, especially with that bitch-woman Deborah."

"She's your mother," Peter murmured, a token protest. He didn't like hearing them speak in such a way of her, but he could understand their reasons for it.

" _I_ don't claim her," Isabeau declared staunchly. "Daddy, all we want is for you to be happy, and we don't think you have been recently. Content, maybe, but that's not the same thing." She paused, using her fork to roll a cherry tomato around in her bowl. "Besides," she continued in a gentler tone, "you can't keep on allowing the past to shape your future. Deborah and Trisha hurt you in different ways, but that's over now, and you've learned from the experiences. We'd like to see you happy in love for once."

"With someone who deserves you," Ian added. "You're a good person, Dad--sometimes too good for your own good! You need someone who'll appreciate that and not take advantage of you. Jane doesn't seem like the type who'd do that. We may be wrong, but time will tell." He shrugged and smiled. "I got good vibes from her. I like her."

"Me too," his sister agreed.

Peter smiled, remembering their immediate and complete dislike of Trisha; he'd regretted not listening to them more times than he could count, but at the time he'd thought they were too young to know better and maybe a little jealous because they'd lived with only their father for so long and they didn't want to share him with a strange woman. But in that case, they'd defintely been right. If they were saying they liked Jane now, he was much more inclined to listen and take their advice to heart.

"I don't know," he said at last, a troubled look flitting across his face as he raked his fingers through his hair. "I'm afraid if I get involved with her that way, I'm going to make myself look ridiculous. I don't want to look like some stereotypical middle-aged man taking up with a younger woman in the midst of a mid-life crisis."

"No, that was Uncle Mike," Isabeau snickered.

"Margaret Isabeau!"

"Well, my point is, you're not in the same position he was," she replied with inexorable logic. "If you get involved with Jane, you won't be giving up anything--except being alone."

"You don't have to make me sound so pathetic and desperate," he said, only partially teasing.

Seeing his life--seeing himself--through their eyes made him wonder if he really had been holing up like a hermit the past six years as his friends had accused him of doing, hiding where it was safe so he wouldn't have to risk being hurt again.

After all, the only woman he'd made any advances towards since his divorce was Isabel, and--although he could feel himself blushing at the mere thought--he had a sinking feeling the two main things motivating him in that case were his own loneliness and a subconscious security in the knowledge that it would never go anywhere with her. She was now and always had been in love with and loyal to Mike; she would never have gotten seriously involved with Peter, and deep down, he knew it.

God, was he that much of a masochist these days? Or just in massive denial about his own needs?

Either way, it was a signal that something needed to change.

"You're not either of those things," she said, reaching out to stroke his arm soothingly. "You're just being overly cautious about getting involved again, and I understand, but I don't think it's healthy for you to let fear get in your way like this. You're only hurting yourself--and us. And your friends."

"Yeah, why do you think Uncle Micky and Aunt Isabel and everybody are trying so hard to get you hooked up with someone?" Ian asked as he polished off the last of his salad and got up to serve himself seconds. "We're all worried about you. Uncle _Mike's_ the social hermit, not you," he said in an eeriely accurate echo of Peter's own thoughts. "And you're closing yourself off in a different way--emotionally."

"Okay, okay." Peter raised both hands in mock-surrender. "You win. I give. Would it help if I told you I've already asked her out, and we've got a date Friday night?"

"Really?" Isabeau jumped up from her seat and darted over to fling her arms around him, and he hugged her back, smiling at her exhuberence. "Great! Oh, you're going to have a wonderful time, and this is going to work out just fine--I know it is!"

"Just don't forget to buy condoms," Ian suggested. "If you've got any left around here, they're probably way too old."

"Ian!" Peter let go of his daughter and shot a look of pure astonishment at his son. "Good God, boy--I think you've been spending way too much time around Rob. What's this sudden fascination with my sex life anyway?"

"It's because he doesn't have one of his own," Isabeau provided helpfully, earning a dark glare from her brother. "That's the frustration talking."

"Pot kettle black, Bobo," Ian retorted. "You oughta know all about frustration--"

"Don't start!" she exclaimed heatedly, and Peter suddenly felt like he'd walked into a movie that was already half-way over. Clearly this was a topic of some contention between them, and he wondered what the root of it was. "I told you it's not true--"

Ian promptly blew a raspberry at her. "Yeah, right. If you were any more obvious about it, you'd have a neon sign glowing over your head."

"What in the world are you talking about?" Peter burst out at last, curiosity over-riding his long-standing promise not to interfere or be nosy where his children's lives were concerned.

"Oh, she's so hot for Rob Nesmith she can practically taste him," Ian explained, visibly scornful of his sister's angry denials. "And he's oblivious. Totally."

"Oh, _really_?" Peter arched one eyebrow, a half-smile curving his lips as he tried to regard her with some degree of solemnity. From the fury and humiliation he could see at war on her face, this was a serious topic to her, and he didn't want her to think he was poking fun.

But the truth was, he found a great deal of amusement in the situation. For his daughter to be in love with Isabel's son...Well, that had to be the Creator's twisted sense of humor at work again, didn't it?

"Well, if it's any consolation," he said, reaching out and giving her another quick squeeze in an attempt to be reassuring, "it took Micky forever to figure out Mags was the right woman for him, and you see how _that_ turned out."

"Don't worry about it, Daddy," she replied with another warning look at her brother. "Ian's just exaggerating as usual. There's nothing going on."

"You can say that again," Ian chuckled, and this time it was Peter who gave him the quelling look in response.

"Ease up on your sister," he chided quietly. "If she doesn't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it. Besides," he said, setting aside his salad and tea for the moment and gazing at his children with a bright, expectant expression. "It's your turn. I want to hear all about your plans for the album."

By the time they left some hours later, Peter felt much more relaxed and at peace with his decision. Just knowing his kids weren't against the relationship--if there ever was one--was a burden off his mind, and he felt the truth of their words more than he'd ever let on. It _was_ time for him to come out of his shell; he'd been hiding away too long, and life was too short for him to let it slip by without enjoying it to the fullest. Yes, he'd give this--this whatever-it-was with Jane a try. Maybe it would work out, maybe not, but he was determined to let it happen.

And he'd simply deal with the results no matter what they were. 

~*~*~ 

Friday night arrived all too quickly.

Peter had spent the entire week alternating between assuring himself that he was about to launch into a grand adventure that he couldn't possibly regret no matter how it turned out and having to stop himself from running to the phone to call and cancel the date. In the end, he didn't cancel, but he felt like such a nervous wreck, he was certain the evening was predestined to fail.

It had been so easy when he'd convinced himself that Jane was a friend and nothing more; he could talk to her, enjoy her company--all without the horrible pressure that went with romantic liaisons. Now he was fraught with tension and unanswered questions. How did she feel? Was she really interested in him in That Way? How was he supposed to act now? And what about sex? Where did _that_ fit into the equation--or did it?

 _Oh, God_...he groaned silently. Despite Ian's teasing, he hoped he wouldn't have to worry about that issue for a while. He and Trisha had stopped sleeping together--well, okay, _Trisha_ had stopped sleeping with _him_ \--long before they separated, so it had been over six years, perhaps seven. He'd probably forgotten what little he knew on the subject; at the very least, he was so out of practice, he was certain she'd laugh at his incompetance.

No, it would be best if they avoided that for a while. The longer the better.

To top it all off, even Jane seemed slightly on-edge when he picked her up; her welcoming smile appeared hesitant, and once they were in his car, she folded her hands tightly in her lap, twisting her fingers nervously.

She looked lovely though, he thought, stealing sidelong glances at her while he drove. Her hair was down, the untamed curls tumbling around her shoulders, and she was wearing a sleeveless, short-skirted light blue dress that was almost as pale as her eyes. They'd agreed to keep things relatively casual, which was a relief to him; he'd settled on jeans, a plain white shirt and a tan jacket with a slightly antique cut that he liked. Plus he was taking her to Maxim's, a cozy restaurant that Isabel had turned him on to; the atmosphere there was comfortable, and he hoped that would help settle the tension arcing between them somewhat.

Unfortunately, as soon as they were seated at a two-seater table next to the window where they could see the quiet street beyond, Peter realized that the atmosphere was more romantic than cozy--especially with the room lit only by tall white candles on each table and soft, sultry music playing in the background. When he went there with his friends, it simply seemed picturesque. Now, however, he felt his cheeks growing warm with embarrassment as it occurred to him Jane might interpret his bringing her there as a prelude to a seduction!

The waiter came, took their drink orders and departed again, and still they had made nothing more than polite, completely trivial conversation; it was as if neither of them knew what to say now that they were beyond the confines of the bookstore. By the time their waiter returned with the iced tea, Peter was so rattled he was ready to start reciting the preamble to the Constitution just to have something to say.

"So," he began as cheerfully as he could manage, blurting out the first thing that popped in his head. "How was your day?"

"Well, I got some bad news," she replied. "Dan--the owner--came by to pick up the Book of Kells. Apparently someone made him an offer over the phone and asked him to deliver it, so he did." She paused, then added with a low chuckle, "For that price, Dan probably would've presented it on a silver platter and offered it on bended knee." She was joking, but he could see the disappointment etched in her features.

"Sorry to hear it." Without thinking, he reached out and covered her hand with his own; she glanced up at him, visibly startled--and once again that meeting of eyes captivated him.

He realized he was staring at her as blatantly--and probably as foolishly--as a schoolboy in the throes of his first crush.

He realized he was caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. 

He realized _she_ was caressing his palm with _her_ thumb.

He realized that one little gesture was sending shockwaves throughout his entire body, and he wanted nothing more at that moment than to be able to hold her--to kiss her--to make love to her--

 _Oh, GOD_!

Peter felt the blood draining from his face as he snatched his hand away and threw himself back in his chair, getting as far away from her as he possibly could; he was literally shaking now, and he cursed himself and his own weakness. Despite the encouragement Ian and Isabeau had given him, he couldn't undo years of damage in a matter of days, and the fact remained that he was afraid.

"Peter?" Jane's face was suffused with alarm as she watched him, her eyes growing wide and round. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing--nothing--"

"Then why do you look like you're about to have a panic attack?" she pressed.

 _Because I think I am_ , he thought grimly, clamping his hands around the arms of his chair to steady himself. _Come on, Tork--this is ridiculous. Get it together_...

Suddenly Jane pushed back her chair, rose to her feet and, skirting around to his side of the table, held out one hand to him. "Come on, Peter," she said gently, her expression compassionate as she gazed down at him. "Let's get out of here. I think we need to talk, and we don't need to do it here."

He stared up at her, speechless for a moment, then he nodded mutely and stood up. He paused long enough to leave some money to cover their barely-touched tea and a tip, and then he followed her out, feeling an odd blend of apprehension and acceptance roiling around inside his chest.

"Where to?" he asked once they were in the car again, and she gave him a long, steady look in response.

"I think you know," she replied softly.

Without another word, he started the car and headed for Serendipity.

~*~*~ 

Once inside, Jane locked the door behind them and moved quickly to the counter to flip on the lamp, filling that corner of the shop with a dim golden glow; then she headed to the back, and Peter perched nervously on his stool, resisting the urge to fidget. He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it across the counter, but he didn't feel any more comfortable. On the contrary, he felt worse than ever, knowing she was going to ask the tough questions, the ones he'd been trying to avoid.

When she returned with two steaming cups of tea, he took his with quiet thanks, but he immediately set it aside; even if his trembling hands didn't spill it, his shaky stomach couldn't handle it.

"So." Jane fixed him with a level gaze. "You want to tell me what all that was about? I don't get this, Peter. One minute, I think we're progressing nicely, and then the next, you're running away like you're scared to death. What's going on? What do I need to know? Is there something I can do to help?"

"I--" Peter broke off, blowing out a frustrated breath and raking both hands through his hair as he struggled to find the words to explain--and surprising himself when he realized that he _wanted_ to explain. He didn't owe her anything after all, and he could easily say no and leave it at that. But he didn't want to leave it at that.

"I've had some rather...unpleasant experiences in the past," he began hesitantly.

"I gathered as much." She nodded, regarding him with sympathy evident in her eyes. "Messy divorces?"

"Messy _marriages_ ," he replied. "I have a knack for choosing...unwisely." He smiled mirthlessly.

"So what happened?"

"Well, the least amount of damage was done by my second wife Trisha, who tried to rob me blind while we were married. I could've had her arrested for what she tried to pull, but..." 

He shrugged and gave another wintery smile. She'd finally gotten caught when she'd pushed her luck and tried to siphon money out of his Headquarters expense account; the discrepancies were noticed by the corporate accountants. Micky, Mike and Davy--along with the rest of the family--had turned ruthless on his behalf, urging him to press charges, but in the end, he hadn't. 

"At least I don't have to pay alimony," he added, deliberately making his voice light as if that would somehow diminish the pain he felt.

"And that was...the _least_ damage?" Jane breathed, her expression grave. "What was the worst?"

"Abuse," he said flatly.

" _What_ \--?"

"Deborah was emotionally abusive--among other things. Between the two of them, it's a wonder I've got enough confidence to function as a normal human being, but I had a good therapist, and that helped." He didn't look at her as he spoke--he couldn't. These were things he'd revealed to no one since the events themselves transpired, and only those closest to him knew any of the details. "She convinced me I was worthless, that I couldn't do anything right, that I--" He choked on the words, and instantly Jane was in front of him, curving her arms around him comfortingly.

"Shh--shh, it's okay," she crooned soothingly. "You don't have to tell me any more--"

"I _want_ to," he replied fiercely, clenching his hands into fists in his lap as he fought to maintain his composure. "You need to know--"

"All I need to know is if I've got any hope of you falling in love with me like I am with you," she told him. "That's all I care about." 

"You...what...?" He snapped his head up, staring at her, scarcely able to comprehend her words. Had she just said she loved him...? 

"I'm falling in love with you," she repeated quietly, and he could read the sincerity shining in the depths of her pale, pale eyes. "Maybe it's happening too fast for you, but I can wait. As long as I know there's hope--"

Cupping her face in his hands, he cut off her words with a kiss, finally tasting her as he'd longed to do for weeks, and she parted her lips eagerly, tangling her tongue with his.

"Can I take that as a good sign?" she asked breathlessly when they finally parted.

"I won't lie to you, Jane," Peter told her somberly. "I'm scared. I don't know if I can take another betrayal, but you..." He touched her cheek, skimming his fingertips along her jawline. "I feel like I can trust you. Getting to know you these past few weeks has been one of the best times in my life, and I don't want it to end."

Lowering his gaze to the floor, he waged an internal war, knowing he was at a crossroads but afraid to take that first step. All his experiences were telling him to run away while he still could, but his heart was urging him to stay. So what did he want to do? Run back to his home and hide again? Exist rather than live? Remain safely alone or risk loving one last time?

Peter drew in a deep breath, released it slowly--and made up his mind.

"I'd like to give us a try," he told her shyly. "If you want me." 

" _If_...?" A glimmer of desire shone in Jane's eyes as she locked gazes with him; reaching out with both hands, she began unfastening the top button of his shirt, and Peter caught her hands, wide-eyed with alarm.

"What're you doing?"

"What do you think?" she countered. " _Yes_ , I want you, Peter. I want you in my life. I want to love you. I want to make love with you. There's nothing to keep us from it." Tugging her hands free, she held up a finger for each point she made. "One, I may be young, but I'm well over the statutory limit. Two, I've only had one lover in my entire life, I've been celibate over four years, and I've got a clean bill of health. Three, my ob-gyn put me on the pill two years ago because I used to have such irregular periods." She paused, doubt suddenly clouding her face. "Unless...Unless you don't want me--I mean--would you rather wait--?"

Exercising will power was one thing. Rampant stupidity was another.

Peter didn't answer in words; instead, he slipped off the stool, grasped her waist and walked her backwards until her back was against the wall, capturing her mouth again and kissing her deeply all the while. With a whimper of pleasure, Jane wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close as one kiss melted into another until he lost count, until his head was swimming with growing passion. While he trailed his lips down her neck, nuzzling the soft skin of her throat, she reached for his shirt buttons again, and this time he didn't stop her.

She pushed the shirt off, caressing his arms on the way down, then trailing her fingertips along the sensitive skin of his inner arms on the way back up, and he felt his body tighten in response. Cradling her head in one hand as he kissed her, he slipped the other beneath the hem of her skirt.

Stockings.

 _Oh, God--it had to be stockings, didn't it_ , he silently groaned as his fingers caressed the narrow expanse of bare skin between the tops of her stockings and the bottom of her panties. She couldn't have been wearing pantyhose. Oh, no. She had to be wearing stockings which could now and always had been able to reduce him to a quivering pile of tapioca pudding on the floor. A very _aroused_ pile of pudding.

Sliding his hands beneath the delicate lace, he cupped her bottom and pulled her close, letting her feel for herself how much he wanted her; from the satisfaction that bloomed in her eyes, he assumed he'd successfully erased any lingering doubts she might have had about that, which was what he'd intended.

She trailed her fingers through the thatch of crinkly hair covering his chest, teasing the erect nubs she found hidden there, smiling when he gasped and convulsively tightened his grasp. He responded by reaching for the zipper on the back of her dress, pulling it down, and easing the garment off her body, revealing her to his eager gaze slowly, savoring the experience with his eyes as well as his hands. Finally he let it fall in a puddle of fabric at her feet; she kicked it out of the way, then slipped out of her shoes as he pulled back enough to be able to look at her from head to toe. Her skin appeared so smooth, as fair as fine porcelain, and he had to touch it, to glide his open palms down her shoulders and arms, over the curving swell of her breasts, along her stomach and hips, and she closed her eyes, seeming to delight in the attention.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Peter dropped to his knees before her and unfastened the hooks of her garter belt, rolling her stockings down one at a time, caressing each new inch of flesh he uncovered with his hands and tongue until she clutched his shoulders, and he could feel her legs growing unsteady.

"Yes...yes, that's lovely..." she whispered, and he immediately stopped to stare up at her in undiluted amazement.

Suddenly realizing he was no longer touching her, she glanced down at him with a quizzical look, and he returned it with a somber expression of his own.

"What is it?" she asked softly.

"No one's said anything like that to me before," he explained simply. "I'm used to hearing what was wrong with whatever I was doing, not what was right."

"Oh, Peter..." she sighed, her tone one of sympathy and compassion. "Not any more. Everything you're doing is right--it feels wonderful."

"Really?" he asked, unable to keep the hesitant note from his voice.

"Yes--oh, God, yes--Peter, I want more," she murmured, and for the first time, he noticed the crimson stain on her neck and chest, her ragged breathing, the tremble in her body--all signs of arousal. And _he_ had brought her to that state. "I want to feel you naked--next to me--inside me--"

With a sharp cry, he sprang to his feet and gathered her in his arms again, her words imflaming him almost beyond endurance. He fumbled with her few remaining undergarments while she wrestled with the fly of his jeans, and within moments, their clothes had been carelessly tossed aside, and he knew the unparalleled joy of her her body molded against his, her warm flesh beneath his exploring hands. 

She wrapped her left leg around his hips, simultaneously locking him against her and opening herself to him in an invitation he didn't refuse. He eased into her gently, trying to go slowly; it had been almost as long for her, after all, and he didn't want to hurt her. But then she thrust her hips against him, sending him deep inside, and he groaned at the exquisite agony of it, feeling what little control he had left slipping away.

"Oh, God..." he gasped, his breathing shallow as he forced himself to remain still, trying to keep himself in check. "I'm sorry...It's been so long...and I don't think I can last this time..."

"Don't worry, beloved," she whispered as she stroked his back soothingly. "Just let yourself go. We have all night, and I want to give you pleasure. You deserve it."

If he hadn't been so consumed with passion, he might have been in danger of breaking down into tears at her words; it was the first time a woman had said anything like that to him in regards to sex, and it was such a foreign concept that he barely knew how to grasp it.

Oddly enough, it also gave him the strength to restrain himself; above all else, he didn't want to leave her unsatisfied, especially not during their first time together. He was determined that she should enjoy the experience as well. As he began to move, rocking his hips against hers and setting a slow, easy rhythm, he lowered his head to nibble her neck and ears, seeking out the places he knew would give her pleasure if he could only find them, and he cupped her breasts gently, stroking the delicate skin, teasing the already erect nipples to diamond-hardness.

She moaned low in her throat and writhed against him, stretching his already shaky will power to its limits, but he refused to be rushed. Instead, as their tempo increased, he moved one hand between their bodies to that most senstive of spots, caressing her, trying to build her passion to a fever pitch. Her fingers dug into his back, her face flushed bright red as her breath came in gasping pants--a sure sign she was losing control--and he whispered encouragement to her as he led her to the brink.

"That's it, my darling, let go," he murmured against her ear. "Let it happen..."

Suddenly she cried out, throwing her head back as her hips surged against his; he felt the convulsions deep within her body, watched her in the throes of pleasure in his arms--and it was his undoing. Grasping her shoulders in an iron grip, he thrust deep and hard--once--twice--three times--and then the world shattered as the release shook him, leaving him weak and panting and sated.

They clung together, both sweat-soaked and trembling in the aftermath, and he really wasn't certain who was propping up whom at the moment. Perhaps, he thought with no little amusement, the wall was all that was holding them both up.

"So..." A sparkle of mischief lurked in the depths of her eyes as she ran her fingers through his damp hair. "Was it good for you?" 

He groaned and shook his head, unable to keep from grinning broadly at the absurdity of her question. "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," he said, and she laughed, then hugged him tight, and he thought that he had never felt anything so wonderful as her naked body pressed against the length of his own. 

"Our tea is probably cold," she remarked, teasing him again.

"Who cares? We need to get out of here anyway. I'd like to be a little more horizontal when we do this again."

"Oh, planning round two already?" She arched a questioning eyebrow at him, and he froze, worried he'd overstepped his boundary somehow. 

"Well, not if you don't--" he stammered. "I mean--is that what _you_ want--?"

Jane gave him a long, serious look, and then slowly she leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly.

"I'm going to tell you this one time, Peter Tork, and you'd better remember it," she began solemnly. "I want a round two, a round three--a round ten million and five."

"Not all tonight, I hope," he joked, a bloom of pure delight welling in his soul at the idea. Clearly she was thinking in terms of a future together--and somehow that didn't seem so frightening anymore.

"No..." She smiled, her voice a sultry purr as she ran her hand along his chest, following the tummy fuzz straight down and making him gasp with surprise. "But we can make a pretty good start..."

~*~*~ 

Steam swirled around Peter, fogging up the shower door and making condensation bead up and roll down the walls of the spacious walk-in. While renovating the former Pad, he'd indulged himself in the bathroom, giving himself both a shower and a deep, wide bathtub, and he'd never been more pleased with his decision than at that moment. He closed his eyes, releasing a sigh of sheer contentment as the hot water from the showerhead pelted his chestóand as Jane massaged his neck and shoulders with warm, soapy fingers.

"Feel good?" she asked, and he smiled lazily even though she was standing behind him and couldn't see his expression.

"If I were any more relaxed, I'd melt down the drain," he replied, amazed at the amount of smug satisfaction he heard in his own voice. 

He couldn't ever remember feeling quite like this with either of his two previous lovers; he'd been happy with them, of course, especially during the early days of each relationship, but it had been different. The happiness had come from the pleasure he got from pleasing _them_ , from catering to their needs, desires and wishes. _This_ quiet joy stemmed from the delight he felt at being coddled and pampered himself--a most unusual turn of events. 

"Good. You needed this," she declared. "Your muscles were stiff." 

He laughed outright at that. "Don't feed me straight lines like that," he chuckled. "I've been around Mike and Micky too long to be able to resist commenting."

Bending her head a little, she blew a raspberry against his skin between his shoulderblades. "Oh, go ahead. If I'm ever careless enough to put the target on my chest, go on and hit me." Grasping his shoulders, she nudged him, giving him the hint to turn around and face her, which he obeyed without protest. "Actually, I'm surprised at how much tension I found," she remarked.

Reaching up to touch his forehead, she rubbed her fingers there in slow circles in a way that didn't feel quite like a massage; a shiver rippled through his body in response, but he didn't tense up.

"That's clear," she murmured as if she were talking more to herself than to him. "Let's try..." She moved her fingers to the base of his throat and repeated the circular motion. "Nope, you're clear there too..."

"What are you doing?" he asked, unable to tamp down his curiosity any longer.

"Trying to find where all that tension is coming from," she explained even as she slid her hand down to the center of his chest and began again. "You told me you started practicing yoga in your thirties and went vegetarian in your early forties, right?"

"Right..." he affirmed slowly, wondering where she was going with all of this.

"Well, this is old stress," she stated matter-of-factly. "The way you live now, it shouldn't be there, but it is, so it must pre-date your lifestyle changes. It's something that's been festering for a while because you haven't dealt with it, so there's a great big knot of it somewhere along this line, and I want to find it."

"But--"

And then she moved down to a spot just below his rib cage and made a soft noise of satisfaction. "Oh, that's got it."

Peter froze as her gentle fingers rotated against his skin; he knew what she was talking about; he could feel the resistance from that place as she massaged, pressing a little more with each new circle, trying to ease it away. He sucked in a deep breath, his eyes flying wide open as something deep within him wound tighter and tighter until he felt as if he were on the verge of exploding--

"That BITCH!"

The words burst forth from the depths of his soul, tearing his throat raw with their sheer force.

"She took _everything_!" he cried, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. "My love--my pride--my dignity--she tried to take my children--"

A ragged sob escaped him, and he slumped against the wall, sagging against it as if he barely had enough strength to hold himself upright any longer; Jane watched silently, but she didn't speak or move to touch him, allowing him to vent completely unrestricted.

"Oh, God..." he moaned. "If she'd gotten them...if she'd gotten my babies...after what she did to Ian...I would've killed her first. I would've killed her with my own two hands before I let her take them away. She took everything else from me, but I couldn't let her hurt them too..."

"You mean Deborah, don't you?"

"Yes! It wasn't enough she broke me--she had to try to break our son too. It's wrong to hate--I know it is--but I hate her--I hate her for what she did to him--and to me--"

Tears welled up in his eyes, and he slid down the wall, curling up in a little protective ball, unable to hold back the sobs wracking him. One part of his mind was aware that he was in a ridiculous positionóhuddled on the floor of a shower, shivering despite the hot water, naked and weepingóbut the rest of him didn't care. As the water flowed down his body, as the tears flowed down his cheeks, a decades-old poison flowed out of his heart, released from its prison at last.

Jane knelt down beside him, slipped her arms around him and leaning her head against his shoulder as she tried to comfort him; if she spoke, he didn't hear her, but he doubted she did. She was one of the few people he'd met who was wise enough to know that sometimes words are useless.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, wrapped around himself as he cried himself out; it could've been five minutes or the better part of an hour. But eventually, the tears stopped; eventually, the fermented anger drained away. Eventually, he realized that his soul felt lighter than it had in years.

"Feel better?" she asked quietly, offering a helping hand as he rose shakily to his feet once more.

"I..." He shook his head, barely able to express how much different he felt. He'd never even known that burden was there, weighing him down, but now that it was goneóhe felt as if he'd been reborn. "How did you know?"

"As my mother always used to say, your body is not a graveyard, but sometimes you bury stuff in it anyway." She smiled and touched the place on his midriff that had apparently triggered the whole episode. "Our bodies remember stress and fear even after our minds forget. We have to cleanse it completely, or it'll stay there and rot, which can do long-term damage both physically and emotionally." 

"The chakrasó" He nodded, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place as memories of snippets he'd read about the line of focal energy points which was supposed to exist on every human body came flooding back. "You were trying to get rid of the problem by stimulating the chakras."

"And I'd say it worked," she said, obviously pleased with the results of her experiment.

"Very well indeed." He smiled and cupped her face in both hands. "Thank you," he whispered, then pulled her into a lingering kiss. 

He'd meant it to be nothing more than an affectionate expression of gratitude, but given the night they'd shared, he supposed he ought to have known better. She slipped her arms around him and pressed close, her slick wet skin sliding deliciously against his, and he deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth thoroughly before pulling away again.

"It seems my chakras aren't the only thing you've stimulated," he teased.

"I'd ask if that's a gun in your pocket or if you're just happy to see me, but you don't _have_ any pockets at the moment," she replied.

"Then I guess you have your answer."

A moment later, all thoughts of old wounds and new healing were forgotten as he backed her against the wall, both of them drowning in a sea of endless kisses and caresses.

"This is getting to be a habit," Peter remarked when they finally came up for air. "Against a wall, I mean."

"Hhmm..." She purred with undiluted feminine satisfaction, moving in a way that made him groan and tighten his arms around her. "No complaints here."

"Me neither. Now where'd you leave the soap...?"

~*~*~ 

It was early afternoon when the doorbell rang, and Peteróclad only in a pair of old jeansópadded barefoot to the door, throwing it open to see Micky standing outside, smiling cheerfully. 

"Hey, Pete!" He edged inside without waiting for an invitation, and Peter let him pass, smiling slightly. "I dropped by to see if you wanted to go to the Jazz Festival with me this afternoon..."

Just then, Jane walked out of the kitchen wearing one of Peter's button-down shirts, and the smile she aimed at Peter turned to shocked embarrassment when she noticed Micky.

"...But I'm guessing you don't," Micky concluded, both eyebrows raised in surprise at the unfamiliar sight of a half-naked woman in Peter's house.

"Oh!" She tugged ineffectually at the hem of the shirt, trying to make it cover as much as possible. "I didn't realize you had company--"

"No, _I_ didn't realize he had company!" Micky exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sorry to barge in on you two--I'll just be going now so I can start spreading this juicy little piece of information on to the rest of the family," he added with an unrepentant grin.

"Tell Ian I didn't need the condoms," Peter replied dryly, earning a puzzled look from both Micky and Jane. "Long story." He waved one hand dismissively. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"You most certainly will!" Micky nodded vehemently. "I want details and lots of them. Later, man! Nice to see you again, Jane!" 

And with that, he was gone. Peter closed and locked the door behind him, then leaned against it a moment, an amused smile quirking one corner of his mouth.

"Y'know," he began slowly. "Mike and Isabel used to complain about Micky's incredibly bad timing all the time, and I always thought they were exaggerating, but after this, I have to wonder."

"Bad timing...?"

He pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room to catch her in his arms again, pressing a lingering kiss at the base of her throat before answering. "They said he had a knack for walking in at the worst possible time and catching them in the middle of...something." He grinned impishly.

"I think they're right!" she retorted. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm sure you weren't expecting to have news of last night--"

"And this morning and this afternoon..."

"--broadcast all over the place so soon," she finished, giving him a playful swat when he slipped his hands beneath the shirt she wore to discover it was _all_ she wore.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Word would get out one way or another," he replied, his tone insoucient. "And they'd figure it out themselves anyway since you're going to be seen with me quite a bit from now on."

"Is that what you want?" she breathed, raising her eyes shyly to meet his.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "What about you? Is this what _you_ want?"

"More than anything."

"Good. We're in agreement then..." He kissed her once more, then gave her a brief squeeze before letting her go and hurrying to the guest bedroom, leaving her to stand there and watch his retreat with bewildered surprise. "And just to show you how serious I am about this," he said once he'd emerged from the room once more, carrying a large white box, "I'm going to give you this now. Have a seat."

Jane obeyed, curling up on the couch and patiently waiting for him to join her, curiosity etched in her features. He sat down next to her and put the box in her lap, and she gasped, her eyes growing wide.

"It's _heavy_!"

"Well, you'll see why," he teased. "I was going to wait and give it to you for Christmas."

"But it's only June."

"I know," he replied softly, letting the implications of his words sink in, and he could tell the exact moment they did, because her expression softened, radiating pure affection all directed at him. 

"You...you were thinking we'd...I mean, that I..." she faltered, seeming afraid to say the words aloud in case he'd tell her they weren't true, but he had no intention of doing that.

"My heart already knew what it took my head a while to figure out." He reached out and caught her hand, squeezing it gently. "Friend or lover, I knew you'd be in my life."

"I want to be both," she answered, giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze in return.

"You are." Suddenly he released her hand and pointed to the box. "Open it!"

Laughing, she reached for the lid; it wasn't taped shut, so she lifted it off easily, parted the layers of tissue paper--and gasped aloud, tears filling her eyes when she saw the Book of Kells nestled in the protective wrapping.

"Oh, Peter...you shouldn't have...It's too much...!"

He made a disparaging noise and waved the silly notion away. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a starving artist."

"I know, but still--!" She touched the cover reverently, her fingers trembling a little.

"I bought it for purely selfish reasons," he told her earnestly. "For one thing, it was obvious how badly you wanted it, and for another, you said it inspired you, and I want to see what you create."

"Just for you, beloved," she said, leaning forward to brush her lips against his. "You're my inspiration now too."

Removing the box from her lap, Peter placed it on the floor and then eased her gently down on the couch, covering her body with his own. Her words had touched him too deeply for him to speak; what few halting phrases that occured to him stuck in his throat, so he kissed her instead, pouring everything he felt into the embrace and hoping she understood.

"It's not enough to tell you I love you," he said at last. "It's too little--it doesn't begin to cover what I feel or how grateful I am for what you've brought to my life--but I guess it'll have to do." 

"You deserve to be happy, Peter." She caressed his cheek tenderly. "And I want to do everything I can to make sure you are."

"Then just stay with me. That's all it'll take."

"You've got itóyou've got _me_."

He gathered her in his arms and held her tight, feeling tears sting his eyelids again but from joy this time, not sorrow. "My darling..." he murmured again and again, wondering what he'd done to earn such unparalleled delight. For years, he'd cut part of himself off, trying to protect himself from being hurt again; for years, he'd unwittingly held onto the pain Deborah had inflicted, little realizing he'd failed to let it go completely so he could heal, but now...

Now Peter Tork had found peace at last.


End file.
